Bajo la sombra de las nubes infinitas
by Olivia VonWarden
Summary: It is the first day of Pamplona's bullfighting festival and participating in the main event is Antonio Fernandez Carreido. It seems like another fantastic event, until chaos begins to unravel itself.  Bad summary is bad.
1. Secrets Whispered in Silence

**Hey guys! I know I've been away for a while and that I should most probably be working on my other story, but this idea wouldn't leave me alone.**

**I was watching videos of Paquirri, a famous Spanish bullfighter and, well, you can probably guess what happened. The only thing I love more than Spain (character and country) is seeing Antonio speak Spanish, so I guess this is a little warning that there is quite a bit of Spanish (not too much though). But no worries.**

**So, without further ado, I give you chapter one. Oh, and if anyone gets the reference for Plus Ultra, awesome points for you. .w.**

**Disclaimer/Warnings: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. This story contains strong language, but that's it.**

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**Bajo la sombra de las nubes infinitas**

by Aurora Borealis

"The bulls are _how _big?" A voice rang through the hall, bounced off the mustard yellow walls, and exited through the open windows. The echo competed against the clamor of the probably million other people that crowded the busy Spanish street. It was an important day in Pamplona, and with all the life and activity overflowing the city, people could barely communicate with each other; but Lovino's ears had been trained to key in on a specific Spaniard's voice, just for these types of situations. "¡Joder, tío! And here I was hoping it was going to be easy today!"

The young Italian boy swam through the crowd, shooting glares and insults at those who obstructed his path. He peeked his head into a room with bright blue walls that contrasted violently with the warm yellow of the hallway. There were two men conversing. One of them was older, rounder, with jet black hair that seemed to be diminishing at the top of his head. He had a full mustache and a great farmer's tan from working under the sun for so long. He was intimidating and seemed to be very serious about whatever he was talking about.

The other man in the room, the one the Lovino had been looking for, was wearing a very colorful get up that was too tight and too flashy, but he could get away with it thanks to his small, yet impressive build and overflowing pride, confidence, and charisma. He had short chocolate brown hair (dark chocolate, reminded the Italian boy; not milk chocolate like his own) and bright emerald green eyes; his mouth was always curved into a smile, no matter how tense the situation was (often frustrating Lovino to no end); and he always appeared carefree no matter how horrible things were at the moment. In that particular time and place, in the busy city of Pamplona, in the little blue room, the man smiled tiredly and sighed scratching his head in slight annoyance.

Lovino pressed his body against the wall and stealthily peered into the room. His hazel eyes landed on a glistening, silver instrument of death, crafted by the best blacksmith in all of Spain. He had seen it before and knew the words _Plus Ultra,_ meaning _further beyond, _were etched onto the blade. The helm of the weapon was truly a piece of art; intricate works of gold elegantly curved left and right, overlapping itself one, two, three times giving it an amazing, yet simple look. Normally, bullfighters would opt for a more practical sword, one to simply slay the beast they were up against and please the crowd, but this man was not just any bullfighter.

Antonio Fernandez Carreido was the nation's hero. He became a matador when he was just fourteen years of age and, in the consequent matches, proved himself to be the best there ever was. As he said in the many interviews that ensued, having such a title was a great honor, one he wouldn't give up for anything. Women fell madly in love with him and men tried to gain his friendship for boasting rights. Antonio never discriminated against anyone. Having been raised by a gypsy mother (this was later revealed as a scandal, but few let it cloud their judgment of the spectacularly talented man for too long), his view of the world differed to that of his coworkers who had been raised "honorably." When asked about his secret he would say "there has to be some kind of respect between the animal and the man; a level of understanding that although neither is better than the other, each will try its hardest to be the victor." He was a civil and respectable young man that, despite all the attention and praise he received, never became vain.

The little blue room in Pamplona was filled with booming laughter on that busy day. "Easy?" The unpleasant man with the sweat-drenched, white shirt asked, his speech muffled by his facial hair. "Si buscas algo facil sugiero que consideres algún otro empleo."

"That's not what I meant." Antonio straightened the red felt that functioned as a decorative belt around his waist.

"I'll tell you what." The other man grunted then dropped his voice to a tone only audible to Antonio. On instinct, Lovino poked his head further into the room causing the old wood to creak under pressure. Instantly, the two individual's eyes turned to Lovino's I-just-got-caught-so-I'm-embarrassed-but-I'm-trying-to-pass-as-angry face.

"What are you doing here? This is restricted personnel only! ¿Qué tu te crees, ah? Go on! Scram!" The fatter of the three shouted. Lovino's face reddened and tensed. He opened his mouth to insult the man and say a couple nasty things about his grandmother, but was stopped by the man in the flashy suit.

"Calma, tío. He's a friend." Antonio placed a hand on the man's sweaty shoulder, almost immediately retracting it and drying it off with a conveniently placed towel.

Lovino and the man glared at each other, neither of them willing to be the one to break way. Finally, the stranger parted his gaze and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Remember what I've told you." He said and made sure to bump shoulders with Lovino on his way out.

"Who the fuck was that guy?" Lovino entered the room, his hand subconsciously rubbing the spot where he had been hit.

"Oh, no one." Antonio smiled at his friend. He finished shining his already sparkling shoes. His smile widened as he picked up the funny-looking, black hat, but instead of putting it on, placed it neatly on Lovino's head. "There! Now don't you look cute? Te pareces un torero verdadero."

The Italian boy turned pink and violently removed the headpiece. "You know I hate this sport." He glared at the spot on the ground trying to calm his racing heart.

Antonio froze, his smile faltered slightly. His gaze fell a few inches; the upward curve of his lips threatened to disappear. Lovino glanced back at him and noticed the effects of his comment.

"I-I mean. I don't _hate_ it." He sputtered. "I just, I-I, I wouldn't like to do it. It seems like too much work and the outfits are hideous."

Accepting this as a positive comment, Antonio beamed at the smaller man.

"Besides," Lovino continued, "it's fucking dangerous. I've seen what those bulls do to people. They... And it's really annoying to watch you do it with the thought in mind. I hate it because it's not a sport. People shouldn't have to worry about death in sports." He frowned at the thoughts; his nails dug deeper into the palm of his clenched hand. His train of thought halted to a crash when he felt a hand messing up his hair.

"Anda, chiquillo, que no te debes preocupar." Antonio placed both his hands on Lovino's shoulders and leaned forward to close the gap between their heights; he smiled. "Es solamente un animal. Yo soy invencible, ¿o ya se te olvidó?"

Lovino furrowed his brows and shook the man's hands off his shoulders. _"Invincible."_ He glared at the poster on the wall to his right. It was an add for some kind of liquor. _"That idiot doesn't take this seriously, does he? He thinks this is just all fun and games. All the while here I am dying every single fucking time he enters that stupid ring. Stupido!"_ He heard Antonio sigh.

"Really, Lovi, don't worry about it. You know me! I'd never let a bull get the best of me." Moments passed without a word being uttered. Antonio forced himself to smile again and pinched his friends cheeks. "Come on! Cheer up! I'll be distracted if I know you're upset." The other man didn't budge. "¡Vamos, Lovi!" He said as if talking to a grumpy child. "¡Ánimo!"

"Va bene! Va bene!" Lovino reluctantly gave in swatting away the fingers which poked at his face. He glanced at Antonio, whose smile was radiating pure joy, and couldn't help but letting the corners of his lips twitch upwards. "Just... Just don't be an idiot out there, okay?"

Antonio beamed and gave a bow. "Upon my honor, I swear shall never do anything stupid 'out there.' " Lovino flushed and patted the guy on the back.

"Okay, that's enough." He pressed the palm of his hand on the Spaniard's back, shoving him out the door. "Let's go. Your audience awaits." He smirked to keep himself from frowning. Antonio, oblivious as always, laughed and allowed himself to be escorted to the ring.

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_¡Joder, tío! _- I guess the equivalent would be "Fuck, man!"

_Si buscabas algo facil sugiero que consideres algún otro empleo. _- If you're looking for something easy I suggest you consider another line of work.

_¿Qué tu te crees, ah? _- Though "qué" means "what," the phrase translates to "Who do you think you are, ah?"

_Calma, tío. - _Calm down, man. (If you haven't noticed, "tío" is the _Spanish_ slang for man/dude/whatever)

_Te pareces un torero verdadero. _- You look like a real bullfighter.

"_Anda, chiquillo, que no te debes preocupar. Es solamente un animal. Yo soy invencible, ¿o ya se te olvidó?" - _Come on, kid, you don't have to worry. It's only an animal. I'm invincible, or did you forget already?

_Stupido! -_ Italian for "stupid," though it would make more sense if I translate it to "idiot." Whatever, you choose. :]

_¡Vamos, Lovi! _- "Let's go Lovi!" Or "Come on, Lovi!"

_¡Ánimo! _- Cheer up!

_Va bene! Va bene! _- Okay! Okay!


	2. Glimpse

**And here we have chapter two!**

**When I researched bullfighting I learned that it is most popular in Spain, France, and Portugal. Not knowing which other Hetalia character to use as the third matador, I created Manel Coutinho, who is supposed to represent Portugal. I fashioned him to portray the stereotypes of his country just as Himaruya did with the rest of the characters. Don't worry, you don't have to like him.**

**There is quite a bit of Italian and Spanish here. Much more than in the past chapter. Personally, I like doing this, but I think I might be biased because I understand both languages. Tell me if writing in different languages bothers you, I will try to tone it down.**

**[I put a disclaimer on the first chapter; it applies for the entire story.]

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Lovino found a seat in the bleachers just in time to see the paesíllo. The group of extravagantly dressed men were welcomed with cheers, whistles, and waved flags. A band played traditional Spanish music making people's hearts flare with pride, especially the ones in center stage. There were twenty-one of them, but only three were matadors. Lovino smirked when his eyes fell on the unmistakable Antonio Fernandez Carreido, the one dressed all in red (minus the shocking pink socks all of them wore, Lovino never understood why) with yellow decorative finishes. But what really set him apart was the big, contagious smile.

Next to Antonio was a man dressed in baby blue with silver finishes. His blonde hair was tied back with a black string and his face bore a small smile that, though genuine, showed that he would have preferred to be elsewhere. Lovino recognized him immediately; Francis Bonnefoy. He and Antonio had often worked together, so Lovino knew him rather well. The French man wasn't a bad bullfighter, but he wasn't excellent. The Italian had a feeling that Francis was more in it for the popularity he received than actually being fond of the sport.

A couple of paces behind the other two matadors was a third one dressed in lime green with yellow finishes. He was noticeably older than the other two (Lovino figured he couldn't be younger than 37), had a broad torso but a growing belly, and had a slight limp in his left leg. His smile seemed conflicted; it was truly happy, yet sad, as if a pang in his heart was eating him from the inside. It took Lovino some time, but he finally identified the man. He was Manel Coutinho! One of the best Portuguese bullfighters of his time! In their youth, Antonio would constantly rant about the man, his achievements, the swiftness of his movements, the preciseness of his actions; the Spaniard once confessed to his friend that he wished to be as skilled as the foreigner one day. And there he was, Manel Coutinho, fighting alongside Antonio. Lovino groaned inwardly knowing that he wasn't going to sleep tonight due to Antonio's incessant talking.

Antonio never really changed throughout the years. Well, of course he had matured physically; the adorable little kid who played in the streets metamorphosized into a very attractive, very well built man, and even Lovino had to admit it. But aside from that, he was still the same smiling, green-eyed kid the Italian boy met many years ago.

The day of their encounter was in no way spectacular or significantly memorable. It took place in Seville, Spain; Lovino Vargas was just twelve years old. He was visiting the city with his two-faced father, Marco, his passive-aggressive mother, Giovanna, and his too-bubbly-to-be-tolerated younger brother, Feliciano. The oldest child was bored out of his mind, not interested in anything other than the closest restaurant selling pizza. He walked on with a zombie-like demeanor until he came across a group of nomads.

"Gitani" He heard the word being spit out by his father.

"Feli, vieni. Dammi la tua mano." His mother whispered. His little brother obeyed, and all three of them sped up, but Lovino didn't bother, or rather didn't want to, keep their pace. He lagged behind and watched the gipsy woman dance to the music a couple of ill-dressed men created with a guitar and clapping hands.

The woman wore a large skirt which she grabbed in her fists as she stomped the floor behind a worn out hat with two or three coins it it. Her face was stern, concentrated, and, at first, it frightened Lovino; but then he saw something behind the dark, furrowed brows and large pointed nose. It was like nothing he had ever witnessed before. He saw... He saw passion. This woman, the men behind her, and the probably four-teen year old boy playing with the younger looking girl, they seemed as if they were actually enjoying themselves. It didn't make sense to Lovino. Their clothes were tattered and mismatched; their shoes, if they were wearing any, were old and broken; they could definitely use a good bath to clean their dirty faces, but they all had more life in them than anyone he had ever met back home in the confines of high Italian society.

"Lovino! Cosa stai facciendo? Vieni qui adesso!" Marco barked from a few feet away. The boy glared at his father and grudgingly did as told, after muttering a couple of things that normally would have landed him a beating; but not before pulling out a coin from his pocket and tossing it in the hat. The older-looking, green-eyed boy that had been playing with the girl noticed Lovino's kindness and smiled a silent "thank you." Lovino unknowingly slowed his pace, smiled back, and nodded a "your welcome." Their eyes were locked a few more seconds before the Italian boy was forced back to reality by his father's harsh, irksome, and fairly racist scolding.

After a dinner complete with Marco drinking a _bit _too much wine, Giovanna smiling and laughing at everything her star-child said, and superficial conversations which sucked the life out the older son, the Vargases returned to their hotel for the night. As soon as the lights turned off Lovino's restlessness took over. He was tired of his stupid life. He could care less about how complex the Cathedral of Seville was or who used what stone to create which sculpture. He was tired of feeling unwanted simply because he wasn't as disciplined, talented, and hard-working as Feliciano. He wanted to see the gypsies again. He wanted to watch the woman dance. He wanted to ask the green-eyed boy his name. He wanted their freedom.

Lovino debated it in his mind for hours that night. He knew that it would be very stupid to run away from home. He lived a good life; he was privileged; he was lucky, but at what cost? He couldn't be himself in front of his parents, he was always being forced to do things he didn't want to do, he couldn't have his kind of fun because it wasn't "proper," and he was sick of it! But...

Lovino turned his head towards his sleeping younger brother. _"He's annoying, but he's not that bad... What would he do if I go? Cry, most probably..." _He made a face and then angrily rubbed his hands through his hair. Why couldn't he just make up his mind?

The following day he was more distracted than usual. The thought of running away was still hot on his thoughts. It would be easy. His parents only paid attention to him every once in a while. But did he really have the guts?

As they passed through the Plaza de España he heard the music again. It was the same woman from the day before, the same men, except this time the green-eyed boy was playing the guitar. They seemed to have succeeded in forming a crowd around themselves which attracted more and more people.

"Mamma, possiamo ascoltare la musica?" Feliciano asked innocently. Lovino looked at his younger brother. Their parents looked at each other.

"Solo per un secondo!" Lovino added with pleading eyes. What was he doing? He didn't know.

Marco turned the suggestion in his mind, his kids begged him with their eyes. He smiled at them, gave his consent and the two boys joyfully neared the gipsies.

This was Lovino's chance. He looked at his parents who gave him all they ever wanted to. He mentally looked at his house, his room, his so called friends (being home-schooled gave him very little choice on who to befriend). He looked at Feliciano who looked back at him, smiled, and extended his hand. Lovino looked at his brother, confused for a moment, then smiled and took his hand as they both ran into the crowd to get a better view. There they were, _lo zingari_. Lovino was once again lost in sweet envy.

The boy with the green eyes looked up from his instrument and noticed the Italian older brother in the crowd. He beamed at him, happy to see a familiar face. Lovino noticed and felt his face flush slightly. But his face only felt hot because he was embarrassed of being recognized. Honestly. There was absolutely no other possible reason.

"Ve, ve, Lovi!" Feliciano tugged on his brother's sleeve. "Non ti piace? Non vuoi ballare?" the eight year old started stomping his feet and clapping his hands in a sad, but cute attempt to imitate the flamenco dancer. Lovino looked at him with wide eyes, and looked back at the boy with green eyes to see that he was once again distracted by his guitar. Thank god. He would have died if Feli's little act had been seen.

"Si, si, em, Feli!" Lovino grabbed his little brother by the shoulders causing the latter to stop and smile. Whatever Lovino was going to say was forgotten. He smiled and patted the boy's shoulder. "Andiamo. Non vuogliamo irritare a babbo." He then took his brother's hand and disappeared into the crowd. As he left he stole one last backwards glance at the boy.

Once the family was reunited, they decided to stroll through the gardens again. Marco, Giovanna, and Feiciano walked with haste, not wanting to lose a second of the beautiful day. Lovino, as usual, trailed behind with his hands in his pockets. When the Vargases turned right on a corner, Lovino paused. This was his last chance. Now or never. He looked up and saw Feliciano singing happily as his parents whispered probably something trivial to each other. The corners of his mouth twitched to form a sad smile. When he had his fill of the scene, he turned around and walked away. The gipsies had ended their show and the crowd was separating. The green-eyed boy was still there, talking to another man, laughing.

"_You've done well this far,"_ He told himself. _"Don't fuck it up now."_ Gathering all of his courage he had walked halfway towards the boy when his guts decided to fail him causing him to consider aborting the mission. _"No. I already took the first step I should at least follow through with _something_ in life."_ So he took another deep breath and continued his stride. As he neared the green-eyed boy, the latter's companion pointed at Lovino who froze in his tracks. His target turned to look at him, and smiled (the Italian was starting to wonder if this guy even had the ability to frown). _"Okay. This is it. First thing is first. Ask his name."_ Lovino opened his mouth to speak.

"Lovino!" Marco's voice echoed throughout the entire plaza. Lovino blanched as his eyes went wide. "Lovino!" The second one made him jump and hide behind the confused, gipsy boy. No. Not now. He was so close! He needed to hide. Even if just for a second. He need more time. Green and hazel eyes met, one asking the other pleading. Somehow, the Italian managed to get his message across because the stranger grabbed his hand and guided him through a labyrinth of tunnels and alleyways.

Lovino shut his eyes tightly, blindly following the boy. Marco's angry calls grew fainter with each step they took. For a moment, he thought he heard desperation laced into his name, but he was probably imagining it. No, he was obviously imagining it. He was certain of it. When it was probably safe to stop running, The boys sat down against a building to try an catch their breath.

"Grazie." Lovino panted.

"Ah, de nada." The green-eyed boy replied. "Pero, si no te importa que te pregunte, ¿por qué estás huyendo?"

"Scusi?"

"¿Qué?"

Great. Cultural differences.

"Em...Io non parlo spagnolo... Solo parlo italiano."

"Ah! Italiano." The other boy laughed in understanding.

"Si!"

"Ah, pues... Yo no hablo italiano... Pero, me llamo Antonio." The green-eyed boy pointed to himself.

"Antonio. Il tuo nome?"

"Nombre, sí. Y el tuyo?" He pointed at the Italian.

"Em... Lovino."

"Lovino. Mucho gusto." Antonio smiled and extended his open palm.

"Piacere." Lovino smiled back shaking his hand.

Lovino shook his head in an attempt to get the memory out of his mind. He scowled. The speed with which his father took notice of his absence always bothered him. Had Marco turned around to tell Lovino to hurry up, only to see he wasn't there? Was it because his mother had asked him a question and he hadn't replied? Or, and Lovino gulped at this, was it Feliciano that wanted to take his older brother's hand (as he had a habit of doing) only to find him missing.

Something one of the toreadors had done had certainly dazzled their audience, for a new wave of cheers passed through the stands.

"_I shouldn't be thinking about this now."_ Lovino told himself. _"That happened a long time ago. There's nothing I can do about it anymore."_

"Antonio!" Three girls directly in front of Lovino shouted in unison. Lovino's eyes snapped at them. "Antonio, do your best, Antonio!" They giggled and waved their white handkerchiefs in the air. Lovino's angry eyes turned to Antonio who looked in their direction and waved before blowing a kiss. The girls swooned. Lovino "accidentally" kicked over an open bottle of god-knows-what to the floor, it's contents ruining the girls' shoes and the helm of their dresses. They screamed in terror upon feeling the unknown liquid on their skin.

"Ah, _disculpa_." Lovino purred, an evil smile plastered on his face. The girls turned to look at him in shock and outrage. Their poor dresses were ruined! How would Antonio pay attention to them now?

Trumpets announced the start of the first_ tercio_ and the crowd became even louder (Lovino hadn't thought it possible). The games had begun.

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_Paesíllo –_ in this case, parade.

"_Gitani" _- Gipsies

"_Feli, vieni. Dammi la tua mano."_ - Feli, come, give me your hand.

"_Lovino! Cosa stai facciendo? Vieni qui adesso!" _- Lovino! What are you doing? Come here right now.

"_Mamma, possiamo ascoltare la musica?"_ - Mom, can we listen to the music?

"_Solo per un secondo!"_ - Just for a second!

_lo zingari_. - the gipsies (another term)

"_Non ti piace? Non vuoi bailare?" _- Don't you like it? Don't you want to dance?

"_Andiamo. _Non vuogliamo irritare a babbo_." _- Let's go. We don't want to irritate dad.

"_Grazie." _- Thank you.

"_Ah, de nada. Pero, si no te importa que te pregunte, ¿por qué estás huyendo?"_ - Ah, your welcome. But, if you don't mind me asking, why are you running?

"_Scusi?" _- Pardon?

"_¿Qu__é__?" _- What?

"_Io non parlo spagnolo. Solo parlo italiano." _- I don't speak Spanish. I only speak Italian.

"_Ah, pues... Yo no hablo italiano... Pero, me llamo Antonio."_ - Ah, well... I don't speak Italian, but my name is Antonio.

"_Il tuo nome?"_ - Your name?

"_Nombre, si. Y el tuyo?" _- Name, yes. What's yours?

"_Mucho gusto."_ - Pleasure

"_Piacere" _- Pleasure.

"_Ah, disculpa."_ - Oh, I'm sorry.

_Tercio_ – third.


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